LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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COLERIDGE'S 
ANCIENT MARINER. 



EDITED BY 

KATHARINE LEE BATES. 

Wellesley College. 



Nothing can be truer than fairy wisdom. It is as true as sunbeams." 

Douglas Jerkoi d. 




^ COPYRIGHT- % 

"'MAY 221889. , 



LEACH, SHEWELL, & SANBORN. 
BOSTON AND NEW YORK. 






Copyright, 1SS9, 
By Leach, Shewell, & Sanborn. 



C. J. PETERS & SON, 

Typographers and Electrotyfers, 

145 HIGH Street, boston. 



PREFACE. 



Ox the list of entrance requirements in English liter- 
ature, as recently adopted by the Association of New 
England Colleges, stands Coleridge's " Ancient Mariner.'^ 
The selection is a happy one, for the reason that the 
poem, exquisite in melody and imagery, and abounding 
in nature-pictures equally remarkable for wide range 
and delicate accuracy, nevertheless produces at first so 
vivid an impression of spectral horror as to blind the 
casual reader to its rare poetic grace and charm. But 
as the poem is dwelt upon in the class-room, the stu- 
dent being brought to realize the marvellous succession 
of moonlight, ocean scenes, then the agonies of that dis- 
ordered soul and the frightfulness of the images reflected 
from its guilty consciousness will but serve to throw 
into fairer contrast the blessedness of the spirit restored 
to the life of love, and the peaceful beauty of the uni- 
verse as beheld by eyes purged from selfishness and sin. 

Coleridge at his best is so purely poetical that he is 
an especially valuable author for class-room use, his 
mastery of diction, melody and figure tending to culti- 



IV 



PllEFACE. 



vate in the student a high, poetic standard. Yet Cole- 
ridge at his best could be comprehended within the 
limits of a very thin volume. If it should be desired 
to extend the study of Coleridge beyond the "Ancient 
Mariner," the finest of his other poems might be brought 
before the class by recitations or readings. Such poems 
are " Christabel," "Genevieve/' "KublaKhan," "Ballad 
of the Dark Ladie," "France," "Fears in Solitude," 
"The Eolian Harp," "Eeflections on Having Left a 
Place of Eetirement," "The Foster Mother's Tale," 
"Sonnet to Burke," "Answer to a Child's Question," 
"Hymn before Sunrise," "The Lime Tree Bower My 
Prison," "The Nightingale: A Conversation Poem," 
"Frost at Midnight," "Dejection," "Ode to Tranquil- 
lity," "Lines to W. L.," "The Pains of Sleep," "The 
Knight's Tomb," "Youth and Age," "Fancy in Nubi- 
bus," the bird song in " Zapolya," the Miserere in 
"Remorse," and the famous original passage upon 
" The fair humanities of old religion " in " The Picco- 
lomini." 



COLERIDGE. 



BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH. 

(1772-1834.) 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, born in Devonshire, Eng- 
land, Oct. 21, 1772, was the youngest of thirteen children. 
His father was a clergyman, schoolmaster, and book- 
worm, holding the two positions of vicar of Ottery St. 
Mary and master of Henry VIII.'s Free Grammar School 
in the same parish. Coleridge has recorded of his mother 
that she was, as doubtless she had need to be, " an admir- 
able economist." His childish love, however, seems to 
have gone out less to her, the Martha "careful and trou- 
bled about many things," than to the absent-minded, un- 
worldly old vicar, who -is remembered for his "Critical 
Latin Grammar," wherein he proposed a change in the 
names of the cases, designating the ablative, for example, 
as "the quare-quale-quidditive case;" and also for the 
Hebrew quotations, which, copiously besprinkled through- 
out his sermons, he used to recommend to the awe- 
stricken hearts of his rustic congregation, as " the im- 
mediate language of the Holy Ghost." " The truth is," 
says Coleridge, " my father was not a first-rate genius ; 
he was, however, a first-rate Christian, which is much 
better." 

1 



2 COLERIDGE. 

In this crowded vicarage the little poet led, as he tells 
us, a solitary life. "1 took no pleasure in boyish sports, 
but read incessantly. I read through all gilt-cover little 
books that could be had at that time, and likewise all the 
uncovered tales of Tom Hickathrift, Jack the Giant-killer, 
and the like. And I used to lie by the wall and mope, 
and my spirits used to come upon me suddenly, and in a 
flood; and then I was accustomed to run up and down 
the churchyard, and act over again all I had been read- 
ing on the docks, the nettles, and the rank grass .... I 
never played except by myself, and then only acted over 
what I had been reading or fancying, or half one, half 
the other ; with a stick cutting down weeds and nettles, 
as one of the ' Seven champions of Christendom.' Alas ! 
I had all the simplicity, all the docility of the little child, 
but none of the child's habits. I never thought as a 
child, never had the language of a child." 

Before the boy was nine years old, occurred the sud- 
den death of his father. Money, never abundant in this 
household, was now scarcer than ever, and the dreamy, 
precocious child must needs be abruptly pushed out of 
the home shelter into the rough life of a London Charity 
School. Through the exertions of one of his father's 
old pupils, an eminent judge of the neighborhood, Cole- 
ridge obtained admission to Christ's Hospital and was 
made a Blue-Coat Boy. Here among the Blue-Coats he 
passed the next eight years of his life, still lonely, for 
all his six hundred schoolfellows, and rapt in strange 
imaginings. "My talents and superiority," he says, 
"made me forever at the head in my routine of study, 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 3 

though utterly without the desire to be so; without a 
spark of ambition ; and as to emulation, it had no mean- 
ing for me ; but the difference between me and my form- 
fellows, in our lessons and exercises, bore no proportion 
•to the measureless difference between me and them in 
the wide, wild wilderness of useless, unarranged book 
knowledge and book thoughts." It is related that the 
visionary student, who seems to have been addicted to 
at least one boyish pastime, delighting on summer holi- 
days in the bathing excursions to a neighboring stream, 
was once walking down the Strand, throwing out his 
arms continually, as if in the act of swimming. A stran- 
ger, with whose person his hand came in contact, taking 
the lad for a pickpocket, seized him, with the exclama- \ 
tion : '' What, so young and so wicked ! " — "I am not a i 
pickpocket," pleaded Coleridge, "I only thought I was 
Leander swimming the Hellespont." The astonished 
stranger, finding his thief turn genius, procured for him, 
by way of apology, free access to a circulating library. 

''Here," writes Coleridge, "I read through the cata- 
logue, folios and all, Avhether I understood them, or did 
not understand them, running all risks in skulking out 
to get the two volumes which I was entitled to have 
daily. Conceive what I must have been at fourteen ; I 
was in a continual low fever. My whole being was, 
with eyes closed to every object of present sense, to 
crumple myself up in a sunny corner, and read, read, 
read — fancying myself on Robinson Crusoe's island, 
finding a mountain of plum-cake, and making a room 
for myself, and then eating it into the shapes of tables 



4 COLERIDGE. 

and chairs — hunger and fancy ! " Poor little Blue- 
Coat ! Those feasts of books were the only feasts he 
knew in Christ's Hospital. It required a flight of fancy 
indeed for the half-starved orphan to imagine a plum- 
cake. For at that time, in the words which Coleridge 
himself used years after : " The portion of food to the 
Blue-Coats was cruelly insufficient for those who had no 
friends to supply them." Lamb, his schoolfellow, then 
and always Coleridge's "gentle-hearted Charles," had 
relatives in town, and so fared better ; but the whimsical 
essayist has given, in the sketch entitled " Christ's Hos- 
pital Five and Thirty Years Ago," a sympathetic picture 
of his less fortunate friend's experience. 

Yet Coleridge's recollections of his school days were 
not all unhappy. To an eager intellect like his, the 
field of knowledge was itself delectable land. Under 
the guidance of this same choleric head master, the 
"rabid pedant" at whom Lamb pokes such irresist- 
ible fun, Coleridge ranged widely over Greek, Latin^ 
and English literature. "At school (Christ's Hospital)," 
he says, in his Biorjrapliia Liter aria, "I enjoyed 
the inestimable advantage of a very sensible, though 
at the same time a very severe master, the Rev- 
erend James Bowyer. He early moulded my taste to 
the preference of Demosthenes to Cicero ; of Homer 
and Theocritus to Virgil ; and again of Virgil to Ovid. 
... At the same time that we were studying the 
Greek tragic poets, he made us read Shakspeare and 
Milton as lessons ; and they were the lessons, too, which 
required most time and trouble to bring up, so as to 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 5 

escape his censure. I learned from liim, that poetry, 
even that of the loftiest and, seemingly, that of the 
wildest odes, had a logic of its own, as severe as that 
of science ; and more difficult, because more subtle, more 
complex, and dependent on more and more fugitive 
causes. 'In the truly great poets,' he would say, 
' there is a reason assignable, not only for every word, 
but for the position of every word.' " But it was not to 
the study of poetry that the young student gave him- 
self up with freest abandon. "At a very premature 
age," Coleridge has recorded, "even before my fifteenth 
year, I had bewildered myself in metaphysics, and in 
theological controversy. Nothing else pleased me. His- 
tory and particular facts lost all interest in my mind. 
. . . Poetry itself, yea, novel and romance, became 
insipid to me." 

In his nineteenth year, Coleridge wrote a poetic fare- 
well, not without tenderness, to Christ's Hospital ; and 
entered at Jesus College, Cambridge, just a month after 
Wordsworth, having taken the bachelor's degree, had 
quitted the university. Of Coleridge's career at Cam- 
bridge, one of his college mates writes : " Coleridge was 
very studious, but his reading was desultory and capri- 
cious. He took little exercise merely for the sake of 
exercise : but he was ready at any time to unbend his 
mind in conversation; and, for the sake of this, his 
room was a constant rendezvous of conversation-loving 
friends, — I will not call them loungers, for they did not 
call to kill time, but to enjoy it. What evenings have 
I spent in those rooms ! What little suppers, or slzingsj 



6 COLERIDGE. 

as they were called, have I enjoyed; when ^schylus, 
and Plato, and Thucydides were pushed aside, with a 
pile of lexicons and the like, to discuss the pamphlets of 
the day. Ever and anon a pamphlet issued from the 
pen of Burke. There was no need of having the book 
before us ; Coleridge had read it in the morning, and in 
the evening he would repeat whole pages verbatim.'' 

But brilliant as these occasional feats of memory might 
be, phenomenal though his natural gifts of understand- 
ing and imagination were, the irresolution and lack of 
practical energy, vfhich so deeply marred the ]poet's later 
life, had already begun their injurious work with him. 
Even at Christ's Hospital, drunken with metaphysics, he 
had turned impatiently away from the mathematics and 
the other exact sciences, the colder and stricter discipline 
which these exert over the mental faculties being distaste- 
ful to him ; and at Cambridge, although he gained a gold 
medal for a Greek ode, he seems to have neglected the 
minutice of classic scholarship, for we find him more than 
once an unsuccessful candidate for college honors. Early 
in the third year of his Cambridge residence, in debt and 
despondent, he yielded to a reckless impulse, and took 
coach for London. There he drifted about for a few 
days, spent his scanty stock of money, waxed hungry 
and, a recruiting advertisement catching his eye, enlisted 
off-hand, the most unsoldierly young Englishman that 
ever wore the scarlet, as a private in the 15th Light 
Dragoons. ^' Being at a loss, when suddenly asked my 
name," he afterwards wrote to a friend, "I answered, 
Cumherhack, and verily, my habits were so little eques- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 7 

trian, that my horse, I doubt not, was of that opinion." 
For four months Coleridge served his country under 
arms as best he might, his comrades helping the awk- 
ward recruit about the grooming of his horse, and like 
non-scholastic duties ; while he repaid these services by 
writing letters for them to their wives and sweethearts. 
But the words, " Eheu, quam infortuni miserrimuTn est 
fuisse felicem,^^ inscribed in pencil on the stable wall 
under his saddle, attracted the notice of an officer. 
The upshot was that Coleridge, bought off with some 
difficulty by his friends, returned in April to Cambridge, 
where he remained only until the summer vacation. 
Then, diverted from college interests by his large en- 
thusiasms for political and social reform, and shut off 
from all chance of college preferment by his profession 
of the Unitarian faith, he severed his connection with 
the University without taking a degree. 

The year in which the restless poet thus broke free 
from academic life was 1794. For four years past all 
Europe had been shaken to its centre by the great event 
of modern history. The French Eevolution, with its 
impetuous rush, had been sweeping all the frank and 
generous young hearts of England away from traditional 
moorings on the wild, glad dream of universal liberty, 
equality, and brotherhood. 

" Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
But to be young was very Heaven." 

Coleridge shared to the full the leaping hope, the deli- 
rious joy, the pure ideal of the hour. The horrors of the 



8 COLERIDGE. 

Revolution daunted liim no more than they did Words- 
worth; for the blasphemy and carnage both our poets 
deemed but the cloud before the daybreak, the transient 
evils incident to the holy triumph of Freedom. In the 
blood-stained leaders of the mob they sought to discern 
patriots, philosophers, philanthropists. 

"Elate we looked 
Upon their virtues; saw, in rudest men, 
Self-sacrifice the firmest ; generous love, 
And continence of mind, and sense of right, 
Uppermost in the midst of fiercest strife." 

And when England arrayed herself with the enemies 
of France; when 

" To whelm the disenchanted nation, 
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, 
The monarchs marched in evil day, 
And Britain joined the dire array," 

Coleridge, like Wordsworth, in the hot grief and indig- 
nation of a youthful spirit, withdrew his sympathies from 
his native land. 

" Though dear her shores and circling ocean. 

Though many friendships, many youthful loves, 
Had swoln the patriot emotion. 

And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves, 
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, 
And shame, too long delayed, and vain retreat. 

For ne'er, O Liberty, with partial aim, 
I dimmed thy light, or damped thy holy flame; 

But blessed the pteans of delivered France, 
And hung my head, and wept at Britain's name." 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 9 

Breaking away from the routine of University life in 
such moocras this, Coleridge almost immediately fell in 
with the poet Southey, like himself, at this time. Uni- 
tarian in religion, and ardently democratic in politics. 
These two young dreamers speedily gave themselves up 
to architecture of that unprofessional kind known as air- 
castle building. They proposed to establish in America, 
on the banks of the Susquehanna, — a location chosen 
because of the resonant name of the river, — a social com- 
munity under the title of Pantisocracy. The Adams in 
this earthly paradise were to till the soil, the Eves were 
to perform the household tasks ; there was to be an abun- 
dance of leisure for social intercourse, for reading of 
books, and writing of poems ; all things were to be held 
in common, and selfishness was to be unknown. But 
while Coleridge and Southey were maturing the details 
of this plan at Bristol, they fell in love with two sisters 
resident there ; and in the fall of 1795, at the age of 
twenty-three, Coleridge, with no visible means of sup- 
port, was married to Sarah Fricker. We hear little 

more of the project 

" The tinkling team to drive 
O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided vale." 

The young husband and Avife cast in their lot with un- 
enlightened England ; where not even bread was held in 
common, but it behooved every man to win for himself 
and his what portion of the loaf he could. And here 
began for Coleridge a painful and a losing struggle. To 
tell what he did is a brief matter, but to tell what he 
proposed and intended to do would fill many pages. 



10 COLERIDGE. 

First he tried his hand at lecturing, then at the publica- 
tion of a weekly miscellany, The Watchmaii. For his 
third venture he issued a volume of " Juvenile Poems," 
receiving in compensation thirty guineas. These poems, 
some fifty in number, many of them dating from under- 
graduate days, represent rather the byplay of Coleridge's 
pen than any sustained exertion of his genius ; and yet, 
though more often eloquent and graceful than highly im- 
aginative, these youthful poems, above and beyond their 
wealth of diction, ease of rhythm, breadth of thought 
and dignity of tone, bear upon them that indefinable 
something which we recognize as the pure poetic im- 
press. Meanwhile the poet had turned preacher and 
was delivering impassioned discourses, usually upon the 
political topics of the time, in the Unitarian chapels 
about Bristol. Hazlitt thus records his impressions on 
hearing Coleridge preach, — 

" As he gave out his text, ' He departed again into a 
mountain, himself alone, his voice rose ' like a stream of 
rich, distilled perfumes ; ' and when he came to the two 
last words, which he pronounced loud, dee^^, and distinct, 
it seemed to me, who was then young, as if the sounds 
had echoed from the bottom of the human heart, and 
as if that prayer might have floated in solemn silence 
through the universe. . . . The preacher then launched 
into his subject, like an eagle dallying with the wind. 
. . . For myself, I could not have been more delighted 
if I had heard the music of the spheres." 

Seventeen hundred and ninety-six was ushered out by 
Coleridge with his " Ode to the Departing Year." With 



BIOGRAPmCAL SKETCH. 11 

1797 dawned the annus mirahills of his genius. His 
poetic activity, stimulated by his new friendship with 
Wordsworth, touched its zenith then. It was the year 
of the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," and "Christa- 
bel ; " of " Love," and the " Ode to France ; " of " Re- 
morse," and " Kubla Khan." His poet comrade, 

" Friend of the wise and teacher of the good," 

has sketched us one last picture of a blithe-hearted 
Coleridge. 

" That summer, under whose indulgent skies 
Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved 
Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs, 
Thou, in bewitching words, with hapi)y heart, 
Didst chant the vision of that Ancient Man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes 
Didst utter of the lady Christabel." 

From these joyous rambles sprang a rich poetic har- 
vest. '• The thought," says Coleridge, " suggested itself 
(to which of us I do not recollect) that a series of poems 
might be composed, of two sorts. In the one the inci- 
dents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatu- 
ral ; and the interest aimed at was to consist in the 
interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of 
such emotions as would naturally accompany such situa- 
tions, supposing them real. For the second class, sub- 
jects were to be chosen from ordinary life ; the charac- 
ters and incidents were to be such as will be found in 
every village and its vicinity, where there is a medita- 
tive and feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice 
them when they present themselves." Thus originated 



12 COLERIDGE. 

the Lyrical Ballads, a joint volume of poems, prepared 
in accordance witli this idea, save that the division of 
labor proved to be unequal, Wordsworth contributing 
nearly five times as many poems as his fitful companion. 
This little book appeared in the spring of 1798, its pub- 
lication, though productive at the time of small fame 
and less profit to the brother authors, marking an epoch 
in the history of English poetry. In the autumn of this 
same year, the two poets, with Wordsworth's sister 
Dorothy, took a trip to Germany, the poetic outcome 
being, for Coleridge, his masterly translation of Schil- 
ler's " Wallenstein." But over the onward path of the 
young poet, still in the radiant sunrise of his genius, the 
menacing clouds had gathered ; and the annals of his 
later life are but " the tragic story of a high endowment 
with an insufficient will." 

The troubles that were fast closing about Coleridge, to 
stifle his exquisite song, sprang mainly from two sources : 
the overthrow of his early, passionate faith in a dawn- 
ing era of liberty and love, and the slavery of the opium 
habit. For to the j^oung poets of England, who had 
thrown the purest enthusiasm of their hearts into the 
French Revolution, came bitter disappointment and 
paralyzing sorrow. When the France in whom they had 
trusted, once freed from her own tyrants, exchanged her 
pledges of love for deeds of hate, her theories of uni- 
versal brotherhood for acts of selfish injustice, her 
psalms to the Goddess of Liberty for the battle-cry 
raised against the free mountains of Switzerland ; when 
England herself was threatened with invasion ; when the 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 13 

oppressed became the oppressor; when the Republic 
passed into the Empire ; when Napoleon's wars of con- 
quest drenched Europe with blood ; — then it was that, 
bewildered, betrayed, despairing of humanity, liberals 
turned conservatives, lovers of the race were driven 
back on the narrower virtue of patriotism and, for 
visions of the Golden Age and inspired songs to Free- 
dom, came disbelief in visions, and loss, of the power to 
sing. Wordsworth's stronger nature, on which the shock 
of disillusion fell at first with crushing force, rose from 
the blow chastened and serene, though never the same 
again. Henceforth he cared little for popular move- 
ments, trusted little in political agitations, but dwelt 
apart from cities, among the rustic poor, regaining his 
faith in mankind as he lingered in cottage doorways and 
heard, — 

''From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths 
Keplete with honor." 

His wounded heart found healing in the dear, familiar 
touch of nature ; and his broken hopes for society were 
re-united in a deeper reverence for humanity. The ideal 
that made the glory of his youth was darkened ; but, year 
by year, a calm-thoughted philosopher, he wrought 
steadily at his art, presenting his life to God as 

"An oblation of divine tranquillity;" 

and bequeathing to his fellow-men a noble body of 
poetry, instinct with 

" Love and hope and faith's transcendent dower." 



14 COLERIDGE. 

But with the death of his aspiration for man, died the 
poet-life of Coleridge. "For Coleridge," says a keen- 
sighted critic, " wanted will ; and with will, perseverance 
and continuance. Nothing gave his will force but high- 
pitched enthusiasm ; and with its death within him, with 
the perishing of his youthful dream, the enduring energy 
of life visited him no more. And this is specially true 
of him as Poet. Almost all his best poetic work is 
coincident with the Ee volution ; afterwards, everything 
is incomplete." 

Yet it is possible that the poetic power, even after 
this benumbing shock, might yet have rallied, had not 
Coleridge suffered himself to become enslaved by the 

opium-habit. 

" Sickness, 'tis true, 
Whole years of weary days, besieged him close, 
Even to the gates and inlets of his life :" 

but the remedy was worse than the disease. Recogniz- 
ing to the full the shame and misery entailed upon him 
by this bondage, which made lethargy of his days and 
torture of his nights, he nevertheless lacked the manli- 
ness to break his chain. 

"Sad lot, to have no hope ! Though lowly kneeling 
He fain would frame a prayer within his breast. 
Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, 
That his sick body might have ease and rest; 
He strove in vain ! the dull sighs from his chest 
Against his will the stifling load revealing, 
Though nature forced ; though like some captive guest. 
Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, 
An alien's restless mood but half concealing. 



BIOGBAPHICAL SKETCH. 15 

The sternness on his gentle brow confessed 
Sickness within and miserable feeling; 
Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, 
And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain. 
Each night was scattered by its own loud screams; 
Yet never could his heart command, though fain, 
One deep full wish to be no more in pain." 

The laudanum fostered his natural indolence and pro- 
crastination. Bitterly he reproached himself, but his 
self-rebukings did not lead to amendment. 

"To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assigned 
Energic reason and a shaping mind, 
The daring ken of truth, the patriot's part. 
And pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart — 
Sloth-jaundiced all ! and from my graspless hand 
Drop friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand." 

And beneath one of his unfinished poems he wrote 
these words of saddest significance, — 

" Carmen reliquwii ifi futurum tenipus relegatum. 
To-morrow ! and To-morrow ! and To-morrow ! " — 

It was not the least of Coleridge's sufferings that he 
could not suffer alone. To read the record of his Her- 
culean projects and frail accomplishment, is to pity, not 
only him, but his wife and children. Domestic care, 
financial responsibility, fretted and harassed the man of 
contemplation; he struggled against the stream for a 
little, and then drifted with the current, lamenting, but 
no longer resisting. In his earlier poems we have fre- 
quent and tender allusions to his bride, and passages of 
purest beauty concerning his infant child. But he has 



16 COLERIDGE. 

not been one year married before his spirit is sorely 
irked by the necessity for regular labor with his pen, to 
meet the expenses of his little household. To a friend 
he writes : " I am forced to write for bread — write the 
flights of poetic enthusiasm, when every minute I am 
hearing a groan from my wife. Groans, and complaints, 
and sickness. The present hour I am in a quickset 
hedge of embarrassments, and, whichever way I turn, a 
thorn runs into me. The future is cloud and thick 
darkness. Poverty, perhaps, and the thin faces of them 
that want bread looking up to me ! Nor is this all. My 
happiest moments for composition are broken in upon 
by the reflection that I must make haste. ' I am too 
late ! ' *I am already months behind ! ' ^I have received 
my pay beforehand.' wayward and desultory spirit 
of Genius, ill canst thou brook a taskmaster ! " 

The odds were too heavily against him, restless, irres- 
olute, unreliable as he was. "The courage necessary 
for him, above all things, had been denied this man," 
says Carlyle. " His life, with such ray of the empyrean 
in it, was great and terrible to him, and he had not val- 
iantly grappled with it ; he had fled from it, sought refuge 
in vague day-dreams, hollow compromises, in opium, in 
theosophic metaphysics. Harsh pain, danger, necessity, 
slavish, harnessed toil, were of all things abhorrent to 
him. And so the empyrean element, lying smothered 
under the terrene, and yet inextinguishable there, made 
sad writhings. For pain, danger, difficulty, steady slav- 
ing toil, and other highly disagreeable behests of destiny, 
shall in no wise be shirked by any brightest mortal that 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 17 

will approve himself loyal to his mission in this world ; 
nay, precisely the higher he is, the deeper will be the 
disagreeableness and the detestability, to flesh and blood, 
of the tasks laid on him, and the heavier, too, and more 
tragic, his penalties if he neglects them.'^ 

Never was erring poet blessed with more patient and 
more generous friends. Southey's home afforded a refuge 
to Mrs. Coleridge and the children. The Wordsworths 
opened their doors to him. De Quincey gave him money. 
Many another friend did the same, sometimes sponta- 
neously, more often in response to Coleridge's begging 
letters. For the last eighteen years of his life the un- 
thrifty, humiliated poet was kindly cared for in the 
family of a Dr. Oilman. 

"It is no secret," says Leigh Hunt, "that Coleridge 
lived in the Grove at Highgate with a friendly family, 
who had sense and kindness enough to know that they 
did themselves honor by looking after the comfort of 
such a man. His room looked upon a delicious prospect 
of wood and meadow, with colored gardens under the 
window, like an embroidery to the mantle. I thought, 
when I first saw it, that he had taken up his dwelling- 
place like an abbot. Here he cultivated his flowers, and 
had a set of birds for his pensioners, who came to break- 
fast Avith him. He might have been seen taking his 
daily stroll up and down, with his black coat and white 
locks, and a book in his hand ; and was a great acquaint- 
ance of the little children." 

In this peaceful retreat, enabled at last, by the aid of 
his friendly physician, to escape in some degree from the 



18 COLERIDGE. 

tyranny of opium, Coleridge seemed to begin life anew ; 
but it was life as a philosopher, now, no longer as a poet. 
Fourteen years before this retirement to Highgate, Cole- 
ridge himself had mournfully recorded the suspension of 
his poetic faculty. 

*' There was a time when, though my path was rough, 

This joy within me dallied with distress, 
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness; 
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, 
And fruits and foliage not my own seemed mine. 
But now afflictions bow me down to earth, 
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth ; 

But oh ! each visitation 
Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth, — 

My shaping spirit of imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must feel, 

But to be still and patient, all I can. 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 

From my own nature all the natural man, — 

This was my sole resource, my only plan. 
Till that which suits a part infects the whole. 
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul." 

The " shaping spirit of imagination " did not return 
to him, in this quiet evening of his stormy day ; but his 
pen was industrious, especially in lines of literary criti- 
cism and of religious philosophy. The list of his prose 
works comprises "The Friend," "Two Lay Sermons," 
"Biographia Literaria," "Aids to Eeflection," "Church 
and State," "Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit," and 
"Literary Remains." Besides these, he left behind a 
mass of notes and correspondence, and a volume has been 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 19 

made of his " Table-talk." These works, though unequal 
ill merit, all reveal the presence of what De Quincey has 
styled " the largest and most spacious intellect, the sub- 
tlest and the most comprehensive, in my judgment, that 
has yet existed amongst men." 

As a Shakspearian critic, Coleridge is unsurpassed in 
English letters. As a religious philosopher, he exerted 
a powerful influence over his own and the succeeding 
generation, being the first to introduce the German spec- 
ulations into English theology. Abandoning his Unita- 
rianism, he found place again within the Established 
Church, and notwithstanding his familiarity with the 
writings of the most able sceptics of France and Ger- 
many, taught a distinctively Christian philosophy. 

Coleridge's wonderful flow of speech attracted many 
disciples to Highgate ; his later 3^ears knew honor and 
reverence, and the faithful friends of his youth loved 
him to the end. Charles Lamb, indeed, never recovered 
from the shock of his old schoolfellow's death, which 
occurred in 1834, and survived him but a short time. 
Wordsworth laments the two friends together. 

*' Nor has the rolling year twice measured 
From sign to sign its steadfast course, 
Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
Was frozen at its marvellous source. 



The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, 
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth; 

And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle. 
Has vanished from his lonely hearth." 



20 COLERIDGE. 

For Wordsworth, like Scott and all that shining group 
of poets who were Coleridge's contemporaries, stood awe- 
stricken before the miraculous imagination which, in the 
" Rime of the Ancient Mariner," but gave forth one flash 
of its splendor. After that twenty-fifth year of high 
achievement, the over-burdened life went astray in sad, 
ignoble confusions ; but at last it was the poet who lay 
dying. " I am dying," he said, " but without expectation 
of a speedy release. Is it not strange that very recently 
bygone images, and scenes of early life, have stolen into 
my mind, like breezes blown from the spice-islands of 
Youth and Hope, — those two realities of this phantom 
world ? " 

To Coleridge these might well seem the only realities ; 
for in the days of youth and hope alone had he been true 
to his own reality, — his one rightful life as poet. In the 
presence of these words his later years, their errors and 
their sufferings, even their labors, fade away ; and we 
know Coleridge once again as the " heaven-eyed " youth 
who roamed with Wordsworth over the Quantock Hills, 
chanting his magical, dreamland ballads, "exquisitely 
wild," to the music of his own inspired heart. 



PEN PICTURES OF COLERIDGE. 



COME back into memory, like as thou wert in the dayspring 

thv rleep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of JambluAus 
oPodnus (for even in those years thou waxedst not pale at 
I philosophic draughts), or reciting Home, m h.s^ Greek 
L- Pindar-while the w.alls of the old Gr.ay Fnars re-echoul 
to ^ ;!;^cents of the inspiral ckarUy-bo, ! - Chaulks Lam.. 

You had a -reat loss in not seeing Coleridge. He is a won- 
derful man °His conversation teems with soul, mnrd and 
sp rk Then he is so benevolent, so good-tempered and cheer- 
nd like William, interests himself so much about every 
little trifle. At first, 1 thouglrt him very P''""; *^ ^'^^J^^ 
about three minutes; he is pale, thin. h.as a wide mouth, hick 
Cs and not very good teeth, longish, loose-growing half- 
e^lin" rough blLlf hair. But if you hear him speak for five 
„" 1: , you think no more of them- His eye is large and 
Xnd not very dark but gray ; such an ^^^^^ 
from a heavy soul the dullest expression ; but it spealvS every 
eZtion of his animated mind: it has more of the poefs eye m 

01 



22 COLERIDGE. 

a fine frenzy rolling than I ever witnessed. He has fine, dark 
eyebrows and an overhanging forehead, — Dorothy Words- 
worth. 

The noticeable man with large gray eyes. — William 
Wordsworth. 

In height, he might seem to be about five feet eight (he 
was, in reality, about an inch and a half taller, but his figure 
was of an order which drowns the height) ; his person was 
broad and full, and tended even to corpulence ; his complexion 
was fair, though not what painters technically style fair, 
because it Avas associated with black hair; his eyes were 
large and soft in their expression ; and it was from the pecul- 
iar appearance of haze or dreaminess, which mixed with their 
light, that I recognized my object. This was Coleridge. — 
Thomas De Qlincey. 

Coleridge was as little fitted for action as Lamb, but on a 
different account. His person was of a good height, but as 
sluggish and solid as the other's was light and active. He 
had, perhaps, suff{3red it to look old before its time, for want 
of exercise. His hair was white at fifty; and, as he generally 
dressed in black, and had a very ti'anquil demeanor, his ap- 
pearance was gentlemanly, and for several years before his 
death was reverend. Nevertheless, there was something in- 
vincibly young in the look of his face. It was round and 
fresh colored, with agreeable features, and an open, indolent, 
good-natured mouth. This bo3'-like expression was ver}' be- 
(joming in one who dreamed and speculated as he did when he 
was really a boy, and who passed his life apart from the rest 
of the world with a book and his flowers. His forehead was 
prodigious, a great piece of placid marble ; and his fine eyes, 
in which all the activity of his mind seemed to concentrate. 



PEN PICTURES OF COLERIDGE. 23 

moved under it with a sprightly ease, as if it was pastime to 
him to carry all that thought. — Leigh Hunt. 

Coleridge sat on the brow of Highgate Hill, in those years, 
looking down on London and its smoke-tumult, like a sage 
escaped from the inanity of life's battle ; attracting toward 
him the thoughts of innumerable brave souls still engaged 
there. His express contributions to poetry, philosophy, or 
any specific })rovince of human literature or enlightenment, 
had been small and sadly intermittent ; but he had. especially 
among young inquiring men, a higher than literary, a kind of 
prophetic or magician character. He was thought to hold, he 
alone in England, the key of German and other transcenden- 
talisms ; knew the sublime secret of believing by " the reason " 
what "the understanding''' had been obliged to fling out as 
incredible ; and could still, after Hume and Voltaire had done 
their best and worst with him, profess himself an orthodox 
Christian, and say and print to the Church of England, with 
its singular old rubrics and surplices at Allhallowtide, Esto 
peri^etua. A sublime man ; who, alone in those dark days, 
had saved his crown of spiritual manhood ; escajDing from the 
black materialisms, and revolutionary deluges, with "God, 
Freedom, Immortality," still his : a king of men. The prac- 
tical intellects of the world did not much heed him, or carelessly 
reckoned him a metaphysical dreamer : but to the rising 
spirits of the young generation, he had this dusky, sublime 
character ; and sat there as a kind of Magus, girt in mystery 
and enigma; his Dodona oak grove (Mr. Gilman's house at 
Highgate) whispering strange things, uncertain whether ora- 
cles or jargon. 

The good man, he was now getting old, towards sixty, per- 
haps ; and gave you the idea of a life that had been full of 



24 COLERIDGE. 

sufferings ; a life heavy-laden, half -vanquished, still swimming 
painfully in seas of manifold physical and other bewilder- 
ment. Brow and head were round, and of massive weight, 
but the face was flabby and irresolute. The deep eyes, of a 
light hazel, were as full of sorrow as of inspiration ; confused 
pain looked mildly fi'om them, as in a kind of mild astonish- 
ment. The whole ligure and air, good and amiable other- 
wise, might be called flabby and irresolute; expressive of 
weakness under possibility of strength. He hung loosely on 
his limbs, with knees bent, and stooping attitude ; in walking, 
he rather shuftied than decisively stepped ; and a lady once 
remarked, he never could flx which side of the garden-walk 
would suit him best, but continually shifted, in corkscrew 
fashion, and kept trying both. A heavy-laden, high- aspiring, 
and surely much-suftering man. His voice, naturally soft and 
good, had contracted itself into a plaintive snufile and sing- 
song ; he spoke as if preaching, you would have said, preach- 
ing earnestly and also hopelessly the weightiest things. I 
still recollect his "object" and "subject," terms of continual 
recurrence in the Kantean province; and how he sung and 
snuflled them into "om-m-mject" and " sum-m-mject" with a 
kind of solemn shake or quaver, as he rolled along. No talk, 
in his century or in any other, could be more surprising. — 
Thomas Caklyle. 

To pass an entire day with Coleridge was a marvellous 
change, indeed [from the talk of daily life] . It was a Sab- 
bath past expression, deep, and tranquil, and serene. You 
came to a man M'ho had travelled in many countries, and in 
critical times ; who had seen and felt the world in most of its 
ranks, and in many of its vicissitudes and weaknesses ; one to 
whom all literature and art were absolutely subject; and to 
whom, with a reasonable allowance as to technical details, 



PEN PICTURES OF COLERIDGE. 25 

all science was, in a most extraordinary degree, familiar. 
'J'hrougliout a long-drawn summer's day, would this man talk 
to you in low, equable, but clear and musical tones, concerning 
things human and divine ; marshalling all history, harmonizing 
all experiment, probing the depths of 3'our consciousness, and 
revealing visions of glory and terror to the imagination ; but 
pouring, withal, such floods of light upon the mind that you 
might for a season, like Paul, become blind in the very act of 
conversion. And this he would do without so much as one 
allusion to himself, without a word of reflection upon others, 
save Avhen any given art fell naturally in the way of his dis- 
course ; without one anecdote that was not proof and illustra- 
tion of a previous position ; gratifying no passion, indulging 
no caprice, but, with a calm mastery over your soul, leading 
you onward and onward forever through a thousand windings, 
yet with no pause, to some magnificent point in which, as in a 
focus, all the parti-colored rays of his discourse should con- 
verge in light. In all these, he was, in truth, your teacher 
and guide ; but, in a little while, you might forget that he was 
other than a fellow-student and the companion of your way, so 
playful was his manner, so simple his language, so affection- 
ate the glance of his eye! — Nelson Coleridge. 

Yisionary Coleridge, who 
Did sweep his thoughts, as angels do 
Their wings, with cadence up the blue. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



HINTS ON THE HANDLING OF A POEM. 



"Poetry," says Coleridge, "is the blossom and the 
fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, 
human passions, emotions, language." 

Essentially a poem cannot be taught. The student 
learns his deepest lesson from the poet and from no 
other. A teacher does well to be on his guard, lest he 
obtrude his own personality between the two. It is the 
poet himself, who, arresting the attention by song, hold- 
ing it by vision after vision, can best impart to the 
young intellect the truth he has to tell, can alone inspire 
in the young heart a sympathetic passion for that truth. 
The function of the teacher, in dealing with any partic- 
ular poem, is, first and foremost, to help the student fix 
his attention upon it. This can usually be done by 
questioning, better than in any other way. A running 
fire of questions, searching, varied, stimulates the mental 
activity, pricks into life the sluggish perceptions, gives 
form and color to those poem-pictures which are often 
so dimly and vaguely reproduced by the untutored im- 
agination ; and thus securing the vivid presentment of 
the scene, the clear comprehension of the thought, does 
away with the intellectual barrier, and brings the heart 
of the student into free contact with the glowing heart 

26 



HINTS ON THE HANDLING OF A POEM. 27 

of the poet. Since definite knowledge is a requisite 
basis for true sympathy, such questions would relate in 
part to the meaning of terms and phrases employed ; and 
rigid must be the will of that teacher who is not some- 
times tempted aside from his main object by the "fossil 
poetry " of individual words, and led to inquire into the 
secrets of their origin and growth; yet the study of 
literature is more than philology. Such questions 
might relate, in part, to the structure of sentences ; the 
significance of allusions, geographical, historical, myth- 
ological; the value of an illustration; the force of an 
argument ; the development of a thought ; — all this to 
insure a firm intellectual grasp of the subject-matter. 
Yet this done, the half has not been done. To under- 
stand the poet's message is one thing ; to feel it, know 
it, and reach out beyond it toward the purer message he 
suggests, but has not words to utter, is another. Indeed, 
care should constantly be taken that these more super- 
ficial questions be kept in the background and not 
suffered to distract the student's mind from the poetic 
essence. For the study of literature must not be mis- 
taken for the study of syntax, geography, history, myth- 
ology or logic. All questions that awaken the imagina- 
tion and enable it to glorify the printed words into such 
clear-colored visions as dazzled the " mind's eye " of the 
poet while he wrote are of peculiar value. Questions 
that quicken the ear to the music of the poet's verse, 
and all other questions that render the student aware of 
poetic artifice, responsive to poetic effects, indirectly 
serve to deepen the central impression of the poem; 



28 COLERIDGE. 

since these very melodies and rhetorical devices are not 
idle ornament, but the studied emphasis of the poet's 
word. Questions that lead the student to recognize and 
define in himself the emotions aroused by one passage 
or another in the poem, questions that call forth an 
attempt to supply missing links in the chain of events, 
questions that carry the reason and imagination forward 
on the lines suggested by the poet, all tend to mould the 
student's mood into sympathy with that higher mood, 
sensitive, eager, impassioned, in which the singer first 
conceived his song. 

The question-method may be well supplemented by 
topical recitation, class discussion, citation of parallel 
passages, comparison with kindred poems and, under 
due precautions, the reading of criticisms. The commit- 
ting a poem to memory, that its virtue may gradually 
distil into the mind and become a force in the uncon- 
scious life, is most desirable wherever it is possible to 
train the student to learn poetry by heart and not by 
rote. The slavish and mechanical engrossing of words, 
lines and stanzas upon some blank tablet of the brain, is 
of questionable benefit ; but where the student is able 
to learn the poem as a poem, not as a column of verses, 
— to possess himself, by the powers of attention and 
analysis, of the sequence of events and grouping of 
images, remembering these in the poet's own language, 
because on trial he finds that language the most natural 
and best ; this surpasses for poetic education every exer- 
cise that the ingenuity of teacher can devise. 

At all events, leave the student alone with the poet at 



HINTS ON THE HANDLING OF A POEM. 29 

the first and at the last. Let him have his earliest read- 
ing of the poem with fresh, unprejudiced mind, and 
when teacher, classroom and critics have done their best 
and their worst with him, return him to the poet again. 
If possible, let a little time intervene, and then let the 
poem be read aloud before the class ; or, better still, 
recited by some one who has entered deeply into its 
spirit, and whose voice is musical and expressive. So 
will the first impression be intensified, and the seed- 
sowing of analysis and criticism be harvested in a richer 
renewal of poetic sympathy. For poetry is not knowl- 
edge to be apprehended ; it is passion to be felt, — pas- 
sion for the truth revealed in beauty, and for the hinted 
truth too beautiful to be revealed. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

IN SEVEN PARTS. 
(1797.) 



Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum uni- 
versitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit-' et gradus et 
cognationes et discriraina et singulorum munera? Quid aguut? qua; loca hab- 
itant? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanuni, nunquam 
attigit. Juvat, interea, non dilTiteor, quandoquc iu animo, tanquam in Tabula, 
majoris et melioris mundi imaginem coutemplari . ne mens assuefacta hodi- 
ernjevitae minutiis secontrahat nimis.et tota subsidatin pusillascogitationes. 
Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab incer- 
tis, diem a uocte, distinguamus. 

T. Burnet • Arch.eol. Phil. p. 68. 

Translation. — I readily believe that there are more invisible beings in 
the universe than visible. But who will declare to us the nature of all these, 
the rank, relationships, distinguishing characteristics and qualities of each? 
What is it they do? Where is it they dwell? Always the human intellect 
circles around the knowledge of these mysteries, never touching the centre. 
Meanwhile it is, I deny not, oft-times well pleasing to behold sketched upon 
the mind, as upon a tablet, a picture of the greater and better world; so shall 
not the spirit, wonted to the petty concerns of daily life, narrow itself over- 
much, nor sink utterly into trivialities. But meanwhile we must diligently 
seek after truth, and maintain a temperate judgment, if we would distinguish 
certainty from uncertainty, day from night. 

T. Burnet : Aroh.eol. Phil. p. 68. 

PART I. 

An ancient Mari- ^^ is an ancient IMarinei', 
nermeetethtiirce And he stoppeth One of three. 

gUlants bidden ^ ^ 

fea^st'TInd' deuin- " ^^ ^^^ ^^"^ ^^'®^ ^^^^^ ^"^^ glittering eye, 
eth one. Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 

"The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 

And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set : 

Mayst hear the merry din." 
30 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 31 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 

*« There was a ship," quoth he. 
** Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon ! " 

Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 



He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The Wedding-Guest stood still. 

And listens like a three-years' child : 
The Mariner hath his will. 



The Wedding- 
Guest is spell- 
bound by the eye 
of the old sea- 
faring man, and 
constrained to 
hear his tale, 



The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot choose but hear ; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 



" The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the light-house top. 

The Sun came up upon the left, 

Out of the sea came he ! 
And he shone bright, and on the right 

Went down into the sea. 



The Mariner tells 
how the ship 
sailed southward 
with good wind 
and fair weather, 
till it reached 
the Line. 



Higher and higher every day, 
Till over the mast at noon " — 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 



The bride hath paced into the hall. 

Red as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads before her goes 

The merry minstrelsy. 



32 



COLERIDGE. 



The Wedding- 
Guest heareth 
the bridal music; 
but the Mariner 
continueth 
his tale. 



The ship, drawn 
by a storm to- 
ward the South 
Pole. 



The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner : 

" And now the Storm-bhist came, and he 

Was tyrannous and strong : 
He struck with his overtaking wings, 

And chased us south alonof. 



The land of ice, 
and of fearful 
sounds, where no 
living thing was 
to be seen. 



With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
As who jDursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe. 

And forward bends his head. 
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast. 

And southward aye we lied. 

And now there came both mist and snow, 

And it grew wondrous cold ; 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by. 

As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts the snowy clifts 

Did send a dismal sheen ; 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 

The ice was all between. 



Till a great sea- 
bird, called the 
Albatross, came 
through the 
snow-fog, and 
was received with 
great joy and 
hospitality. 



The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, 

Like noises in a swound ! 

At length did cross an Albatross ; 

Through the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 

We hailed it in God^s name. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 33 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 

And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder -fit ; 

The helmsman steered us throuo^h ! 



And lo ! the Al- 

And a ffood south wind sprung up behind ; ^?*™ss proyeth ; 

° r- o X bird of good 

The Albatross did follow, omen, and fol- 

loweth the ship 

And every day, for food or play, as it returned 

_, J .^ ^ ^ , , n , northward, 

Came to the manners' hollo ! through fog and 

floating ice. 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine ; 
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 

Glimmered the white moon-shine." 



God save thee, ancient Mariner 
From the fiends, tha 
ihj look'st thou so ? " 
I shot the Albatross. 



From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — iner SspitaWy 
Why look'st thou so ? " — " With my cross-bow bitdofgooZm"en. 



PAKT n. 



The Sun now rose upon the right : 

Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 

Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew behind, 

But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day for food or play 

Came to the mariners' hollo ! 



34 



COLERIDGE. 



His ship-mates 
crj' out against 
the ancient Mari- 
ner, for killing the 
bird of good luck. 



And I had done a hellish thing, 
And it would work 'em woe ; 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 
That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay. 
That made the breeze to blow ! 



But when the fog 
cleared off, they 
justif}' the same, 
and thus make 
themselves ac- 
complices in 
the crime. 



Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 

The glorious Sun uprist. 
Then all averred, I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 
'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. 

That bring the fog and mist. 



The fair breeze 
continues; the 
ship enters the 
Pacific Ocean and 

sails northward, We wcrc the first that ever burst 

even till it 

reaches the Line. IntO that silent SCa. 



The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
The furrov/ followed free ; 



The ship hath 
been suddenly' 
becalmed. 



Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 

'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea ! 



All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody Smi, at noon. 

Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon, 



Day after day, day after day. 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



THE BIME OF THE A NCIENT MARINER. 



35 



Water, water, everywhere. 
And all the boards did shrink ; 

Water, water, everywhere, 
Nor any drop to drink. 



And the Albatross 
begins to be 
avenged. 



The veiy deep did rot : O Christ ! 

That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 

Upon tlie slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night ; 

The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so : 

Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

And every tongue, through utter drought, 

Was withered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 

We had been choked with soot. 



A spirit had fol- 
lowed them; one 
of the invisible 
inhabitants of 
this planet, 
neither departed 
souls nor angels ; 
concerning which 
the learned Jew, 
Josephus, and 
the Platonic Con - 
stantinopolitan, 
Michael Psellus, 
may be consulted. 
They are very 
numerous, and 
there is no cli- 
mate or element 
without one or 
more. 



Ah, well-a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



The ship-mates, 
in their sore dis- 
tress, would fain 
throw the whole 
guilt on the an- 
cient Mariner; in 
sign whereof they 
hang the dead 
sea-bird round 
his neck. 



36 



COLERIDGE. 



The ancient Mar- 
iner beholdeth a 
sign in the ele- 
ment afar off. 



At its nearer 
approach, it 
seemeth him to 
be a ship ; and 
at a dear ransom 
he freeth his 
speech from the 
bonds of thirst. 



PART in. 
There passed a weary time. Each throat 

Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
A weary time ! a weary time ! 

How glazed each weary eye, 
When looking westward, I beheld 

A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck, 

And then it seemed a mist ; 
It moved and moved, and took at last 

A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 

And still it neared and neared : 
As if it dodged a water-sprite. 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood. 

And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 



A flash of joy ; 



And horror fol- 
lows. For can it 
be a ship that 
comes onward 
without wind or 
tide? 



With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

Agape they heard me call : 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. 
And all at once their breath drew in, 

As they were drinking all. 

See ! see ! (I cried) , she tacks no more . 

Hither to work us weal, — 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 

She steadies with upright keel ! 



TBE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 37 

The western wave was all a-flame. 

The day was well-nigh done ! 
Almost upon the western wave . 

Rested the broad bright Sun ; 
When that strange shape drove suddenly 

Betwixt us and the Sun. 

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 

(Heaven's Mother send us grace !) it seemeth him 

. .pj, IT ,1 -I but the skeleton 

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered of a ship. 
With broad and burning; face. 



Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 

Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 



Are those her ribs through which the Sun 

Did peer, as through a grate ? 
And is that Woman all her crew ? • 
Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 
Is Death that Woman's mate ? 



And its ribs are 
seen as bars on 
the face of the 
setting Sun. The 
Spectre-Woman 
and her Death- 
mate, and no 
other on board 
the skeleton ship. 



Her lips were red, her looks were free, 

Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The Night-mare, Life-in-Death was she, 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came, 
And the twain were casting dice ; 

♦ The game is done ! I've won, I've won ! ' 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 



Like vessel, like 
crew! 



Death and Life- 
in-Death have 
diced for the 
ship's crew and 
she (the latter) 
winneth the an- 
cient Mariner. 



38 



COLERIDGE. 



No twilight 
within the courts 
of the sun. 



The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out ; 

At one stride comes the dark ; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 

Oflf shot the spectre-bark. 



We listened and looked sideways up ! 
Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 
The stars were dim, and thick the night, 
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; 

From the sails the dew did drip, — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one bright star 

Within the nether tip. 



At the rising of 
the Moon. 



One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh, 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 

And cursed me with his eye. 



Four times fifty living men, 

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan,) 



One after another, 

his shipmates t,. , 

drop down dead. With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. 



They dropped down one by one. 



But Life-in- 
Death begins her 
work on tne an- 
cient Mariner. 



The souls did from their bodies fly, — 

They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul, it passed me by. 

Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MABINEE. 39 



PART IV. 

•* I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 
And thou art long and lank, and brown 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. 



The Wedding- 
Guest feareth 
that a spirit is 
talking to him ; 



I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 

*' Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 

My soul in agony. 



But the ancient 
Mariner assureth 
him of his bodily 
life, and proceed- 
eth to relate his 
horrible penance. 



The many men, so beautiful ! 

And they all dead did lie : 
And a thousand thousand slimy things 

Lived on ; and so did I. 



He despiseth the 
creatures of the 
calm. 



I looked upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away ; 

I looked upon the rotting deck, 
And there the dead men lay. 



And envieth that 
they should live, 
and so many lie 
dead. 



I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray ; 

But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 

My heart as dry as dust. 



40 



COLERIDGE. 



I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat ; 
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 
Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
ShVo'/.rfn «T; Nor rot nor reek did they : 
eye of the dead ^he look with wliich they looked on me 

men. '^ 

Had never passed away. 



In loneliness and 
fixedness he 
yearneth towards 
the journeying 
Moon, and the 
stars that still 
sojourn, yet 
still move on- 
ward ; and every- 
wiiere the blue 
sky belongs to 
them, and is 
their appointed 
rest, and their 
native country 
and their own 
natural homes, 
which they enter 
unannounced, as 
lords that are 
certainly ex- 
pected, and yet 
there is a silent 
joy at their ar- 
rival. 



By the light of 
the Moon he be- 
holdeth Gods 
creatures of the 
great calm. 



An orphan's curse would drag to Hell 

A spirit fi'om on high ; 
But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

The moving INIoon went up the sky. 

And nowhere did abide : 
Softly she was going up, 

And a star or two beside : 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 

Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay 
The charmed water burnt alway 

A still and awful red. 

Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes : 
They moved in tracks of shining white, 
And when they reared, the elfish light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MAEINEB. 



41 



Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire ; 
Bhie, glossy green, and velvet black, 
They coiled and swam ; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 



O happy living things ! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare : 

A spring of love gushed from my heart. 
And I blessed them unaware : 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
And I blessed them unaAvare. 



Their beauty and 
their happiness. 



He blesseth them 
in his heart. 



The self -same moment I could pray ; 

And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 

Like lead into the sea. 



The spell begins 
to break. 



PART V. 

O sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole ! 
To IMary Queen the praise be given ! 

She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 



The silly buckets on the deck 

That had so long remained, ^o^ifiSX^he 

I dreamed that they were filled with dew ; f "r1f"e\h?d with 

And when I awoke, it rained. ^^^^ 



42 



COLEMIDGE. 



My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were clank ; 

Sure 1 had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 

I was so light, — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 

And was a blessed Miost. 



He heareth ^^^^ soon I heard a roaring wind : 

Snge'sS^tr'" It did not come anear ; 

fn thT^ramr ^^^^ ^^^i^^ its sound it shook the sails, 

the element. That were SO thin and sere. 



The upper air burst into life ! 

And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
To and fro they were hurried about ! 
And to and fro, and in and out, 

The wan stars danced between. 

And the coming wind did roar more loud. 

And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
And the rain poured down from one black cloud ; 

The Moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 

The Moon was at its side ; 
Like waters shot from some high crag. 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 

A river steep and wide. 



5^v 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



43 



The loud wind never reached the ship. 
Yet now the ship moved on ! 

Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
The dead men gave a groan 



The oodles of the 
ship's crew are 
inspirited, and 
the ship moves 
on. 



They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 

It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 

Yet never a breeze up-blew ; 
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 

Where they were wont to do ; 
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools, — 

We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother's son 

Stood by me, knee to knee : 
The body and I pulled at one rope. 

But he said nought to me." — 



" I fear thee, ancient Mariner! " — 
"Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
Which to their corses came again, 
But a troop of spirits blest : 



But not by the 
souls ot the men, 
nor by daemons of 
earth or middle 
air, but by a 
blessed troop of 
angelic spirits, 
sent down by the 
invocation of the 
guardian saint. 



For when it dawned, they dropjjed their arms, 

And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 

And from their bodies passed. 



44 



COLERIDGE. 



Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 

Then darted to the Sim ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 

Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 

I heard the skylark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are, 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 

With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 'twas like all insti'uments, 

Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angePs song, 

That makes the Heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 
A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 
That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe : 

Slowly and smoothly went the ship 
Moved onward from beneath. 



The lonesome 
spirit from the 
south pole carries 
on the sliip as far 
as the Lhie, in 
obedience to the • 
angelic troop, but 
still requireth 
vengeance. 



Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of mist and snow. 

The spirit slid : and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 

The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 45 

The Sun, right up above the mast, 

Had fixed her to the ocean : 
But in a minute she 'gan stir. 

With a short uneasy motion, — 
Backwards and forwards half her length, 

With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 

She made a sudden bound : 
It flung the blood into my head, 

And I fell down in a swound. 



How long in that same fit I lay, The Polar spirits 

^ , , - fellow-daemons, 

I have not to declare ; the invisible in- 

-r. , ,. . ,.,. , T habitants of the 

But ere my living life returned, element, take part 

Ti 11. IT J in his wrong; and 

I heard and m my soul discerned two of them re 

m -f r • • J.1 • late, one to the 

Two Voices in the air. other, that pen- 

ance long and 
heavy for the an- 
cient Mariner 

* Is it he ? ' quoth one, ' Is this the man ? ^^*i^^f "the 



corded to the 

By Him Who died on cross, Polar spirit, who 

•^ returneth south- 

With his cruel bow he laid full low ward. 

The harmless Albatross. 

The spirit who bideth by himself 

In the land of mist and snow. 
He loved the bird that loved the man 

Who shot him with his bow.' 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew : 
Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done, 

And penance more will do.' 



46 



COLERIDGE. 



PART VI. 

First Voice. 

* But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing, — 

What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the Ocean doing ? ' 

Second Voice. 

' Still as a slave before his lord, 

The Ocean hath no blast ; 
His great bright eye most silently 

Up to the Moon is cast, — 

If he may know Avhich way to go ; 

For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! how graciously 

She looketh down on him.' 



The Mariner hath 
been cast into a 
trance ; for the 
angelic power 
causeth the vessel 
to drive north- 
ward faster than 
human life could 
endure. 



First Voice. 

But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or Avave or wind ? ' 



Second Voice. 

The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behind. 



Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 

Or we shall be belated : 
For slow and slow that ship will go, 

When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 47 



I woke, and we were sailing on The supernatural 

As in a gentle weather : tardedVfiief' 

'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high ; fnThfs'ptnaScI' 

The dead men stood together. ^"^'"' ^""^• 



All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter: 

All fixed on me their stony eyes. 
That in the Moon did flitter. 



The pang, the curse, with which they died, 

Had never passed away : 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 

Nor turn them up to pray. 

And now this spell was snapt : once more 

I viewed the ocean green. The curse is 

And looked far forth, yet little saw ^ 

Of what had else been seen, — 



Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round walks on, 
And turns no more his head ; 

Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 



But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made : 

Its path was not upon the sea, 
In ripple or in shade. 



48 



COLERIDGE. 



It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek, 
Like a meadow-gale of SiDi'ing, — 

It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 

Yet she sailed softly too : 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze, — 

On me alone it blew. 



And the ancient 
Mariner behold • 
eth his native 
country. 



Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
The light-house top I see ? 

Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 
Is this mine own countree ? 



We drifted o'er the harbor-bar. 
And I with sobs did pray, — 

Oh, let me be awake, my God! 
Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbor-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 

And on the bay the moonlight lay. 
And the shadow of the ]Moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock : 

The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light, 
The angehc Till rising from the same, 

spirits leave the -,, ,, , ^i i. i j 

dead bodies. Full many shapes, that shadows were. 

In crimson colors came. 



THE EUIE OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 49 

A little distance from the prow 

Those crimson shadows were : 
I turned my eyes upon the deck, — 

Christ ! what saw I there ? 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 

And, by the holy rood ! And appear in 

. n 1. , ^ 1 their own forms 

A man all light, a serai^h-man, of ligiit. 

On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 

It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land, 

Each one a lovely light ; 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand ; 

No voice did they impart, — 
No voice ; but, oh ! the silence sank 

Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

1 heard the Pilot's cheer ; 

My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 

I heard them coming fast : 
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 

The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third, — I heard his voice ; 

It is the Hermit good ! 
He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 
He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 



50 



COLERIDGE. 



PART VII. 



The Hermit of 
the wood. 



This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 

He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far counti'ee. 



He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve, — 

He hath a cushion plump ; 
It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, 
' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 

Where are those lights so man}^ and fair. 
That signal made but now ? ' 



Approacheth the 
ship with wonder. 



* Strange, b}'^ my faith ! ' the Hermit said, 
' And they answered not our cheer ! 

The planks looked warped ! and see those sails, 
How thin they are and sere ! 

I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were 



Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along ; 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow. 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below 

That eats the she-wolfs young.' 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINEB. 51 

♦ Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look ' 

(The Pilot made rej^ly), 
' I am afeared.' — ' Push on, push on ! ' 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 

And straight a sound was heard. 

Under the water it rumbled on, 

Still louder and more dread : The ship sud- 

It reached the ship, it sjDlit the bay ; 

The ship went down like lead. 



Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound. 
Which sky and ocean smote, ^, . ^ ,,r 

•J ' The ancient Mar- 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned i"®""^?, ^^^l^ '" 

•^ the Pilot s boat. 

My body lay afloat ; 
But swift as dreams, mj^self I found 
AVithin the Pilot's boat. 



Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat s^Dun round and round ; 

And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips, — the Pilot shrieked 

And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy Hermit raised his eyes. 

And prayed where he did sit. 



52 



COLERIDGE. 



I took the oars : the Pilot's boy. 

Who now doth crazy go, 
Laughed loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro, 
* Ha, ha ! ' quoth he, * full plain I see, 

The Devil knows how to row.' 

And now, all in my own countree, 

I stood on the Urm land ! 
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 

And scarcely he could stand. 



The ancient Mar- ' O, slirieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! '• 

SeLfeZSer: The Hermit crossed his brow. — 

hJmfandS'pen- ' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say, - 

oS wm."*"^ ^^"' What manner of man art thou ? ' 



Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woful agony, 
Which forced me to begin my tale ; 

And then it left me free. 



And ever and 
anon throughout 
his future Ufa an 
agony constrain- 
eth him to travel 
from land to land. 



Since then, at an micertain hour, 

That agony returns ; 
And, till my ghastly tale is told, 

This heart within me burns. 



I pass, like night, from land to land ; 

I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me : 

To him my talc I teach. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 53 

What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 

The Wedding-Guests are there : 
But in the garden-bower the bride 

And bride-maids singing are : 
And hark ! the little vesper bell, 

Which biddeth me to prayer ! 



O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 

Alone on a wide wide sea : 
So lonely ^twas, that God himself 

Scarce seemed there to be. 



O, sweeter than the marriage-feast, 

'Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk 

With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 
While each to his great Father bends, 
Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 



And youths and maidens gay ! 



Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell And to teach by 

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest, — love a "d^nf^Jer-^ 

He prayeth well, who loveth Avell Kf God made ^^ 

Both man and bird and beast. ^"'^ ^''''^^^• 



He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 

For the dear God who loveth us. 
He made and loveth all." 



54 COLERIDGE. 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 

Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned, 

And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man, 

He rose the morrow morn. 



NOTES ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



In the manuscript notes which Wordsworth left behind him 
stands this record: "In the autumn of 1797, Mr. Coleridge, 
my sister, and myself started from Alfoxden pretty late in the 
afternoon with a view to visit Linton and the Valley of Stones 
near to it; and as our united funds were very small, we 
ao-reed to defray the expense of the tour by writing a poem 
to be sent to the New Monthly Magazine. Accordingly, wc 
set off, and proceeded along the Quantock Hills towards 
Watchet; and in the course of this walk was planned the 
poem of the 'Ancient Mariner,' founded on a dream, as Mr. 
Colerido-e said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the 
m-eatesrpartof the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention, but 
certain parts I suggested; for example, some crime was to be 
committed which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as 
Coleridge afterwards delighted to call him, the spectral perse- 
cution, as a consequence of that crime and his own wander- 
ino-s I had been reading in Shelvocke's ' Voyages,' a day 
or" two before, that while doubling Cape Horn, they fre- 
quently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of 
sea fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet 
' Suppose,' said I, ' you represent him as having killed one ot 
these birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary 
spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the crime^ 
The incident was thought fit for the purpose, and adopted 
accordino-ly. I also suggested the navigation of the ship by 
the dead'men, but do not recollect that I had anything more to 

55 



56 COLERIDGE. 

do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with which it 
was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either 
of us at the time, at least, not a hint of it was given to me, 
and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous afterthought. We 
began the composition together on that, to me, memorable 
evening. I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of 
the poem, in particular, — 

' And listened like a three years' child : 
The Mariner had his will.' 

These trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr. C. has 
with unnecessary scrupulosity recorded, 

* And tliou art long, and lank, and brown 
As is the ribbed sea sand,' 

slipped out of his mind, as well they might. As we en- 
deavored to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same even- 
ing) our respective manners proved so widely different that it 
would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but 
separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have 
been a clog. . . . The ' Ancient INIariner ' grew and grew till 
it became too important for our first object, which was limited 
to our expectation of five jDounds ; and we began to think of a 
volume which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the 
world, of poems chiefly on su^Dcrnatural subjects." 

Says De Quincey in his ' ' Lake Poets : " — 

"In the year 1810, I happened to be amusing myself by 
reading, in their chronological order, the great classical cir- 
cumnavigations of the earth; and, coming to Shelvocke, I 
met with a passage to this eff'ect : — That Hatley, his second 
captain (^. e. lieutenant), being a melancholy man, was pos- 
sessed by a fancy that some long season of foul weather was 
due to an albatross which had steadily pursued the ship ; upon 
which he shot the bird, but without mendins: their condition. 



NOTES ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 57 

There at once I saw the germ of the ' Ancient Mariner : ' 
. . . though it is verj possible, from something which Cole- 
ridge said on another occasion, tliat before meeting a fable 
in which to embody his ideas, he had meditated a poem on 
delirium, confounding its own dream scenery with external 
things, and connected with the imagery of high latitudes."" 

Part the First. If this poem be compared for ballad char- 
acteristics with other sea ballads, as the "The Wreck of the 
Hesperus," "The Ship o' the Fiend," and, in Coleridge's own 
words, — "The grand old ballad of 'Sir Patrick Spence,'" it 
will be noticed how closely the first stanza of this last resem- 
bles in form the introductory stanza of the ' Ancient Mariner.' 

" The king sits in Dunfermline town, 
Drinking the blude-red wine; 
* O whare will I get a skeely skipper 
To sail this new ship o' mine? ' " 

Fart the Second: stanza fifth. In the "Sibylline Leaves" 
(1817), the second line is printed, — 

" The furrow stream'd off free," 

with the foot-note by Coleridge: "In the former edition the 
line was, — 

* The furrow follow'd free ; ' 

but I had not been long on board a ship before I perceived that 
this was the image as seen by a spectator from the shore, or 
from another vessel. From the ship itself the wake appears 
like a brook flowing oft' from the stern." But in later editions 
the earlier and more musical expression was restored. 

Fart the Third: stanza tenth. Notice Milton's picture of 
Death : 

"That other shape — 
If shape it might be called tliat shape had none 
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb; 
Or substance might be called that shadow seemed, 



58 COLERIDGE. 

For each seemed either — black it stood as Night, 
Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell, 
And shook a dreadful dart: what seemed his head 
The likeness of a kingly crown had on." 

Paradise Lost, II., 666-673. 

Stanza twelfth. In the early editions this was followed by 
the stanza : 

"A gust of wipd sterte up behind, 
And whistled through his bones; 
Through the holes of his ej^es and the hole of his mouth, 
Half whistles and half groans." 

Fart the Fourth: stanza fourth. Compare Milton's 

" Attended with ten thousand tliousand saints; " 

Paradise Lost, VI., 767. 
and Spenser's 

"All these, and thousand thousands many more." 

The Faerie Queene, II., XII., 25. 

Stanza seventh, linejijth. The earlier editions have •' cloud " 
for "load." 

Part the Fifth: stanza sixteenth. See poems to "The Sky- 
lark," by Shelley, Wordsworth, and Hogg. 

Stanza twenty-second. Notice this same echo-eflfect as a 
favorite device of Poe, in " Lenore," " Ulahmie," "Annabel 
Lee," etc. 

Part the Sixth : stanza tenth. Comj^are Spenser's 

" So soone as Mammon there arrivd, the dore 
To him did open and afforded way ; 
Him followed eke Sir Guyon evermore, 
Ne darkeness him ne daunger might dismay. 
Soone as he entred was, the dore streightway 
Did shutt, and from behind it forth there lept 
An ugly feend, more fowle than dismall day. 
The which with monstrous stalke behind him stept, 
And ever as he went dew watch upon him kept. 



NOTES ON THE ANCIENT 3£ARINER. 59 

"Well hoped hee, ere long that hardy guest, 
If ever covetous hand, or lustfull eye 
Or lips he layd on thmg that likte him beSt, 
Or ever sleepe his eie-striugs did untye, 
Should be his pray ; and therefore still on hye 
He over him did hold his cruell clawes, 
Threatning with greedy gripe to doe him dye, 
And rend in peeces vrith his ravenous pawes, 
If ever he transgrest the fatall Stygian lawes." 

The Faerie Queene, II., VII., 26-27. 

Stanza sixteenth, fourth line. Compare Longfellow's 
"I stood on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the hour. 
And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

" I saw her bright reflection 
In the waters under me. 
Like a golden goblet falling 
And sinking into the sea. 

" And forever and forever, 
As long as the river flows. 
As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes, 

" The moon and its broken reflection 

And its shadows shall appear. 

As the symbol of love in heaven. 

And its wavering image here." 

The Bridge. 

Stanza eighteenth, first line. Compare Coleridge's 

"Hark! the cadence dies away 
On the yellow, moonlight sea." 

Remorse, Act III., Sc. I., Song. 
Part the Seventh : stanza second. Compare Goldsmith's her- 
mit in " Edwin and Angelina." 



60 COLERIDGE. 

Stanza twenty-second. Compare Wordsworth's 

** The ISeing, that is in the clouds and air, 

That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
Maintains a deep and reverential care 
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. 

'* One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, 

Taught by what Nature shows, and what conceals; 
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 

Hart-Leap Well. 

Compare also the conclusion of Tennyson's " Two Voices." 



QUESTIONS ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



PART THE FIRST. 



Why should not tbe poem open less abruptly, — with a descrip- 
tion, for example, of the surrounding scenery, as in Longfellow's 
" Evangeline" ? Would the first scene be equally effective, if the 
Wedding-Guest were alone, instead of *' one of three" ? Is there 
any gain in thus giving us the picture of the Ancient Mariner, 
— not directly, but in the words of the Wedding-Guest ? What is 
the impression made on the Wedding-Guest at the outset by the 
" long grey beard and glittering eye " ? What poetic purpose is 
served by setting this tale of the Ancient Mariner against the 
background of a wedding feast ? What indication of hurry and 
impatience is there in the last line of the second stanza ? What 
is the meaning of eftsoons f How is it that the "glittering eye" 
holds the Wedding-Guest better than the " skinny hand " ? What 
do the interruptions of the Wedding-Guest, as the tale proceeds, 
indicate in regard to his successive states of mind? Are there 
more reasons than one for giving this picture of the harbor here ? 
How does the poem tell us in what direction the ship is sailing ? 
Where is the ship when the sun stands over the mast at noon ? 
What makes the beauty of the ninth stanza ? Does the tenth 
stanza gain or lose in force from the fact that every line is the 
repetition of a former line ? How do you understand the line 

" Still treads the shadow of his foe "? 

What is the main force of the comparison in the twelfth stanza ? 
How do the following three stanzas contrast with the twelfth ? 
What impressions are made upon the ship's crew by this Antarctic 

61 



62 COLERIDGE. 

sea ? How do you understand the word drifts in this connection ? 
Why was it a '* dismal sheen" ? What is the obvious and what 
the suggested significance of the comparison in the last line of the 
fifteenth stanza ? What is the appearance of an albatross ? How 
does the greeting given the Albatross make the Mariner's crime 
the more revolting ? How do the actions of the Albatross enhance 
the guilt of the Mariner ? What advantage is believed by the 
sailors to accrue to them from the presence of the Albatross ? 
Why, as suggested in the phrase "vespers nine," with later refer- 
ences to the saints, "Mary Queen" and the "holy Hermit" who 
has power to shrive the soul of sin, does Coleridge choose Roman 
Catholicism for the religious setting of his poem ? Is the snow- 
fog, glimmering white in the moonshine, white or dark by day ? 
By what device does the poet increase the effect upon us of the 
Mariner's confession ? What have been so far the sounds of the 
voyage ? Can you find a line farther on in the poem which vividly 
depicts the last, ominous sound hinted at in this division of the 
tale ? 

PART THE SECOND. 

When and how did the ship turn northward ? Why did the 
Mariner shoot the Albatross ? Why do his shipmates cry out 
against him ? Have his shipmates any share in his crime, or is it 
unjust that they should share his punishment ? What change is 
there in the appearance of the rising sun, as they pass from fog to 
clear weather? What is the "silent sea" ? Would the first line 
of the sixth stanza be as effective written thus : 

'• Down dropt the breeze, down dropt the sails " ? 

At what point is the ship becalmed ? What does the poet mean 
by a " copper sky ? " What is the effect of the repetition in the 
eighth and ninth stanzas ? Can you substitute a better word for 
stuck in the eighth stanza ? What gives its peculiar force to the 
simile of the eighth stanza ? In the ninth stanza, what is the 
syntax of water? What figure of speech prevails in this ninth 
stanza ? Do the last two lines of the tenth stanza help or hinder 



QUESTIONS ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 63 

the poetic effect ? Are the words " with legs " superfluous ? Why 
is the rhyming effect emphasized in the first line of the eleventh 
stanza ? What is the meaning of rout in this connection ? What 
do you understand by death-fires ? What suggestions come with 
the words "witch's oils''? Does the eleventh stanza, with its 
dance and color, produce upon you an impression of gladness ? 
Why does not the poet make the avenging spirit visible? Can 
you find two lines, farther on in the poem, descriptive of this 
spirit ? What are the numbers referred to in the poem, and why 
should these numbers be selected rather than others ? What pic- 
ture in strong contrast to this tropic belt of calms, is suggested to 
memory by the last line of the twelfth stanza ? What is the deri- 
vation of well-a-day f Why do the sailors hang the Albatross 
about the Mariner's neck? 

PART THE THIRD. 

Does the word weary occur too often in the first stanza ? 
What lines earlier in the poem convey a like idea with: *'Each 
throat was parched," and which expression seems to you the 
stronger ? Why does the poet place the spectral ship in the 
west ? How does he arouse our expectation and interest as re- 
gards the ship ? What picture is called up by the third line of the 
third stanza ? How is this suggestion of a water-sprite in accord- 
ance with the rest of the poem ? How does the fourth stanza com- 
pare with the gloss upon it ? What is the derivation of Gramercy f 
Why does the poet use the word grin in this connection ? What 
is the significance of the last two lines of the fifth stanza ? How 
do you picture the group of mariners that stand watching the 
progress of the coming ship ? Are their eyes still glazed ? What 
successive changes pass over their faces, as the ship draws near ? 
What feeling does the Ancient Mariner express in the sixth 
stanza ? Is there any indication in the seventh stanza that he 
regards the ship as supernatural? Why should the picture 
sketched in the eighth stanza till the Ancient Mariner with fear ? 
What reason have we for assuming that his feeling is one of fear ? 



64 COLERIDGE. 

What is the meaning of the gloss: "Like vessel, like crew"'? 
What is the gain in poetic effect from placing this scene at the 
hour of sunset ? What is the derivation of gossameres ? What 
does the word gossameres suggest in regard to the sails ? AVhat 
figure of speech gives force to stanzas ninth and tenth ? Why is 
the attention of the Ancient Mariner concentrated from the first 
upon the Woman rather than upon Death ? Is there any culmina- 
tion of horror in the questions of the Ancient Mariner? Does 
the Woman, with her red lips and yellow locks, impress us 
as beautiful ? What feeling does she arouse in us ? What 
is there in the description to justify this feeling? How do you 
picture that group of the twain casting dice ? (See Notes for 
Milton's conception of Death. ) What is the demeanor of the 
Woman ? What do you imagine to be the demeanor of Death ? 
What w^as the stake in this game which the Woman has won ? 
Has Death won anything by the dice? How does the gloss 
enhance the beauty of the description given in the first two 
lines of the thirteenth stanza? How does the sentence struc- 
ture in those two lines heighten the effect? What are the 
peculiarly expressive words in those lines ? To what sense does 
the first half of the thirteenth stanza appeal ? To what sense the 
second? What causes the "far-heard whisper"? Why is the 
swift motion of the spectre-bark so appalling ? What is signified 
by the looking sideways up ? What is the force of the comparison 
in the fourteenth stanza ? How do the dim stars and thick night 
correspond with the Mariner's mood ? AVhat is the value of the 
fifth and sixth lines of this stanza ? What is the eastern bar f 
Can you sketch 

" The horned Moon, with one bright star 
Within the nether tip " ? 

What is the function, in the narrative, of this long stanza ? Is the 
expression " the star-dogged Moon " f>leasant or unpleasant to you ? 
Why does the poet throw moonlight, rather than darkness, over so 
terrible a scene ? Why does he make the deaths so swift and sud- 
den ? What seems to the horror-stricken Mariner most strange 



QUESTIONS ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 65 

about these deaths ? What is the peculiarity of certain words em- 
ployed in the third line of the sixteenth stanza ? Why should the 
poet arrange that the close of the sixteenth stanza suggest the be- 
ginning of the fifteenth ? Has the Ancient Mariner a heavier or 
lighter punishment than his shipmates ? When does his torment 
of conscience begin ? Why should the poet close each division of 
the tale with an allusion to the Albatross ? 

PAKT THE FOURTH. 

Why does the Wedding-Guest fear the Ancient Mariner ? What 
do you understand by the expression "the ribbed sea sand"? 
What does that expression modify ? What in form goes to con- 
stitute the peculiar power of the third stanza ? What in sub- 
stance ? How do the glosses interpret that mood of the Ancient 
Mariner suggested in the fourth stanza ? How does the Ancient 
Mariner regard himself ? What is the feeling which constrains 
him to turn his eyes from "the rotting sea " ? What is the feel- 
ing which constrains him to turn his eyes from "the rotting 
deck" ? What is the feeling which constrains him to turn his 
eyes from Heaven ? What figures of speech occur in the sixth 
stanza ? Do you detect any technical fault in this stanza ? Does 
ihe Mariner escape his pimishraent by closing his eyes ? What 
line earlier in the poem is formed like the third line of the seventh 
stanza ? What similarity in poetic effect follows upon this simi- 
larity of structure ? What is the climax of the Mariner's suffer- 
ing ? What is the effect upon him of the seven days and nights 
of penance ? What first beguiles him from the consciousness of 
his own guilt and wretchedness ? How is the verse suggestive 
here of the motion of the Moon ? Hoav does this tenth stanza con- 
trast, in music and in vision, with the earlier part of the poem ? 
What corresponding change may we infer is coming over the 
spirit of the Mariner ? Why does his heart yearn toward " the 
journeying Moon," with her attendant stars ? What added beauty 
does the gloss lend to the vision ? Does tlie Mariner recognize the 
peaceful joy of the stars ? In seeing the moon and the stars, 



66 COLERIDGE. 

what have his tortured eyes at last forgotten to see ? How do the 
Moon's beams bemock the main ? What suggestion does the word 
charmed throw upon this tropical sea-picture ? What effect does 
the silence throughout all this scene produce ? How is it that the 
Mariner can now bear to look upon the sea ? With what feeling 
does he now watch those "slimy things," — " God's creatures of 
the great calm " ? How do the water-snakes without tlie shadow 
of the ship contrast with those within the shadow ? Why does the 
poet speak of " the elfish light " ? What colors have we in the pic- 
ture now ? How is the Mariner able to distinguish beauty where 
before he had seen but the loathsome and the horrible ? What 
is the force of the metaphor in the third line of the fourteenth 
stanza ? What word in the following line enforces that meta- 
phor ? With what lines earlier in the poem do the last two lines 
of the fourteenth stanza contrast ? What change in the Mariner's 
spirit is indicated by this contrast ? In blessing the water-snakes, 
whom else does the Mariner bless ? Why could he not pray 
before ? How is it that he can pray now ? Why at this point 
should the Albatross fall from his neck ? Why is the Albatross 

described as sinking 

" Like lead into the sea " ? 

Why should not the poem end here ? 

PART THE FIFTH. 

How is it that the Ancient Mariner can sleep at last ? What 
other praises of sleep do you find in poetry ? How is the second 
line of the first stanza especially suited to the general range of this 
poem ? How is the musical effect of the last two lines produced ? 
What is the meaning of silly in this connection ? Was the Mar- 
iner's dream unnatural ? In what terms has lie mentioned his lips 
and throat before ? Would it have been better for the Mariner if 
he had died in sleep and become " a blessed ghost" ? What fur- 
ther allusions have we to the " roaring wind " ? What is the sig- 
nificance of burst in stanza sixth ? What are the fire flags f 
What is the picture suggested by the sixth stanza ? Why is the 
rhyming effect emphasized ? How is the expression " wan stars " 



QUESTIONS ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



67 



peculiarly appropriate here ? Does the comparison in the seventh 
stanza seem to you good ? In the eighth stanza, what is the most 
forceful word? What is the meaning of jag here? What has 
been the progress of events since the Mariner awoke ? What is 
the climax of that progress ? Why should the poet resort to this 
device of inspiriting the bodies of the crew ? What is the effect on 
the Mariner of the rising of the dead men ? How does his present 
mood contrast with his mood as described in the first half of Part 
Fourth ? Has the curse faded from the dead eyes of the sailors ? 
Why does the Wedding-Guest again shrink back from the Ancient 
Mariner ^ At what hour do the blest spirits leave the bodies ? In 
what form do the spirits ascend? Why is the rhyming effect 
emphasized in the first line of the fifteenth stanza ? Why do the 
sounds seek the Sun ? What is the suggestion in the word darted ? 
Why should the poet select the ski/lark for special mention ? \A hat 
is the meaning oijargoning here ? Why does the poet change the 
tense in the seventeenth stanza? How does the simile m the 
eighteenth stanza compare with, — 

« And the sails did sigh like sedge " ? 
Why '' the sleeping woods " ? Why " a quiet tune " ? Why this 
sound of a breeze in the sails ? When do the sails leave off their 
tune ? Where is the ship then ? How do you reconcile the gloss 
here with the gloss on the sixth stanza of Part Second ? Why 
cannot the Polar Spirit carry the ship beyond the Line ? Why has 
he borne on the ship so far ? Is this restless, violent motion of the 
ship better or worse than her previous becalmed condition ? What 
does the poet mean by *' living life " ? What are these voices in 
the air ? Wherein is the Mariner's deed a contrast to the deed of 
" Him Who died on cross " ? What does the first voice tell us that 
makes the crime of the Mariner darker than before ? What feeling 
is expressed by the first voice ? What by the second ? 

PART THE SIXTH. 
As you seem to hear the two voices, what is the difference in 
their sound and tone ? Which does the poet represent as wiser, the 



68 COLERIDGE. 

pitiful or the indignant spirit ? Which spirit sees effect ? Which 
sees cause ? What scientific truth have we in stanzas second and 
third ? What addition of poetic beauty ? What bears on the ship ? 
Why is the rhyming effect emphasized in the converse of the spirits ? 
What further penance awaits the Mariner on awaking ? How has it 
come to pass that tlie dead men stand togetlier on the deck ? What 
horror does the JNIariner behold in the moonlight ? When the spell 
is snapt and he draws his eyes from the glittering eyes of the dead, 
why cannot he clearly see the sights of the ocean ? What corre- 
sponds in his experience to the frightful fiend of the comparison ? 
What in the description leads us to feel that this wind is a symbol 
of hope ? What would you select as the two most beautiful lines of 
the description ? What poetic device is employed in the thirteenth 
stanza ? What significance in the last line of that stanza ? How 
does the poet make the fourteenth stanza expressive of strong 
emotion ? Why does the Mariner take the sight of his " own 
countree" for a dream ? How does his prayer connect with this 
first exclamation ? Where have we seen already a picture of this 
same harbor ? Was that also a moonlight picture ? What reason 
is there for the change of order in these two mentions of hill and 
kirk and light-house top ? What is the meaning of strewn in 
stanza sixteenth ? Is the phenomenon described in the latter part 
of this stanza true to nature ? What is the effect of the silence 
here as contrasted with the effect of that pervading Part Fourth? 
How does the phrase 'Hhe steady weathercock" deepen this 
impression ? Is moonlight always white ? How has the moon- 
picture prepared us for this second shadow-picture ? Why does 
tlie poet show us the crimson reflections of the seraphs on the 
moonlight bay before we see the "men of light" themselves? 
How had the troop of blessed spirits been manifest before ? Is 
there any expression here linking this scene to that ? Why 
should the poet select the color crimson for the seraph-men ? 
Instead of angel songs, what sounds does the Mariner hear? 
What is his chief reason for rejoicing in these sounds ? 



QUESTIONS ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 69 



PART THE SEVENTH. 

Has the poet any design in the number of these divisions? 
Why has he changed his usual term to marineres ? Has he taken 
a like liberty with any other word in the poem? By what hint 
does the poet bring before us a vivid picture of the Hermit's ora- 
tory ? Why is it natural for the Hermit to liken the thin sails to 
wintry leaves ? What is the ivy-tod f What impression is made 
by the last two lines of the fifth stanza ? How does the fourth 
stanza help to prepare us for the eighth ? What causes the sink- 
ing of the ship ? What general truth is there in the comparison 
" swift as dreams " ? Is there peculiar value in such a comparison 
in this poem ? Why is the rhyming effect emphasized in the tenth 
stanza ? What else conduces to make the latter part of this stanza 
musical ? Is the beauty of- these tw^o lines altogether in the 
music ? What is the penance which the Hermit lays on the Mar- 
iner ? In the seventeenth stanza, why would not the simile '' like 
morn," for instance, be as good as *' like night " ? What did the 
Ancient Mariner see in the Wedding-Guest to lead him to declare 
his tale ? What is your impression of the character of the Wedding- 
Guest ? What contrast of sounds is tliere in the eighteenth stanza ? 
What previous stanza is recalled by the second line of the nine- 
teenth ? Why does the Mariner find the kirk sweeter than the 
feast ? Why does the Wedding-Guest turn from the bridegroom's 
door ? What change has taken place in him ? Does wisdom always 
bring sadness ? How many successive sea-pictures can you find in 
the entire poem ? How many moonlight pictures ? Why does the 
poet have most of the scenes take place by moonlight ? Why i^ 
the vocabulary of this poem so largely Anglo-Saxon ? From what 
sources are the similes drawn ? What is the general character of 
the similes ? What are the most striking contrasts of the poem ? 
What would you say of the melody ? What of the imagery ? 
What is the superficial falsehood of the poem ? What the funda- 
mental truth ? What the central teaching ? 



70 COLERIDGE. 



INTERPRETATION OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

How much does the Ancient Mariner mean ? Is it true, as is 
ingeniously argued by a contributor to the Journal of Speculative 
Philosophy (July, 1880), that this poem embodies a complete system 
of Christian theology, presenting " the Fall from the innocence of 
ignorance, from the immediacy of natural faith ; and the return, 
through the mediation of sin and doubt, to conscious virtue and 
belief" ? Does the Ancient Mariner represent mankind ? the ship, 
the physical environment of the soul ? the Albatross, faith in spirit- 
ual things ? the snow-fog, ignorance ? the golden sun, knowledge 
of good and evil ? the tropic seas, the weary calm of " mere finite 
subjectivity " ? the demon woman, unbelief ? the spirit under the 
keel, divine grace ? the Pilot and the Pilot's boy, ''sensuous know- 
ing and finite understanding" ? the Hermit, reason? and the 
happy outcome, the loss of "all particularity" and recognition 
of "the true Universal" ? 

However edifying such a hieroglyphic reading between the lines 
may be to the philosophers, there is little reason to suppose that 
Coleridge and Wordsworth, in their merry tramp over the Quantock 
Hills, had the faintest suspicion of their own profundity, as they 
planned together, with young imaginations aglow, this wild, pic- 
turesque, melodious ballad of dreamland. Certainly any attempt 
to expound to youthful students of the "Ancient Mariner" an 
interpr(!lation so technical — may philosophy forgive the term ! — 
would result for them in mental bewilderment and disgust and an 

echo of Endymion's cry, — 

•* And now, by Pan, 
I care not for this old mysterious man ! " 

Yet few teachers will be content to pass the poem by without 
an effort to impress upon their classes not merely its marvellous 
poetic beauty, the elfin sweetness of the music, the vivid imagery 
of the swiftly shifted scenes, the terse energy of phrase, and artistic 
order and harmony of the whole, but also its undoubted, inmost 
teaching that the soul makes its own world, and that in alliance 
with the living.spirit of love is the only life of man. " My endeav- 



QUESTIONS ON THE ANCIENT MARINER. 71 

ors," says Coleridge, distinguishing between his work and that of 
Wordsworth in the Lyrical Ballads, " were to be directed_t o per- 
sons and characters^ supernatural, yet so as to transfer from our 
inward nature a human interest, and a semblance of truth, suffi- 
cient to procure from these shadows of imagination that willing 
suspension of disbelief for the moment which constitutes poetic 
faith." And throughout the "Ancient Mariner" we clearly per- 
ceive it to be the "inward nature" which is mirrored upon the 
changing face of that magical, moonlight ocean . It is t lxe storm 
of life that rages there so "tyrannous and strong" ; it is the 
dreary, stagnant selfishness of the soul which by wanton act has 
severed itself from the living principle of love — the wretched soul, 
"alone, alone," and perishing of thirst — that paints the ghastly 
waters of that awful tropic sea; it is the revival of love in the heart 
that calls down from Heaven the sweet rain of refreshment. 
"Coleridge's 'Rime of the Ancient Mariner,'" writes Professor 
Corson of Cornell University, in his "Introduction to Browning," 
"is an imaginative expression of that divine love which embraces 
all creatures, from the highest to the lowest, of the consequences 
of the severance of man's soul from this animating principle of the 
universe, and of those spiritual threshings by and through which it 
is brought again under its blessed influence." 

The temptation is strong to carry on this thought into minute 
illustration, but it is dangerous for prose to attempt to speak for 
poetry. The "Ancient Mariner" is its own best interpreter. 
Every reader who becomes subject to its subtle spell will prefer to 
be left free to read his own meanings into its flashing hints. For 
that it teaches by inspired suggestion rather than by infolding 
within itself an elaborate system of thought or even a detailed his- 
tory of human experience follows from its essential character as 
the most poetical of poems, as first and foremost a tour deforce of 
the imagination. Rev. Stopford Brooke, in " Theology in the Eng- 
lish Poets," insists upon the simplicity of its lesson. "We see 
in it how childlike the philosophic man could be in his faith, 
how little was enough for him. Its religion is all contained in the 
phrase — * He prayeth well who loveth well both man and bird and 



72 COLERIDGE. 

beast.' On this the changes are rung throughout ; the motiveless 
slaughter of the bird is a crime; the other mariners who justify the 
killing of the bird because of the good it seems to bring them are 
even worse sinners than the ancient mariner. He did the ill deed 
on a hasty impulse; they deliberately agree to it for selfish reasons. 
They sin a second time against love, by throwing the whole guilt 
on him, and again for selfish reasons. They are fatally punished ; 
he lives to feel and expiate his wrong. And the turning point of 
his repentance is in the re-awakening of love, and is clearly 
marked. Left all alone on the sea, * he despiseth the creatures of 
the calm, and envieth that so many should live and so many lie 
dead,' and in that temper of contempt and envy Coleridge suggests 
that no prayer can live. But when seven days had passed, he 
looked again on God's creatures of the great calm, and seeing 
their beauty and their happiness, forgot his own misery, and the 
curse, and himself in them, and blessed and loved them, and in 
that temper of spirit, prayer became possible." 

On this at least all the interpreters are agreed, — that the kernel 
of the whole poem is love, — love as the living link between man and 
nature, — love as the atmosphere wherein alone spirit life is possi- 
ble, — that love of God which involves the love of the least of His- 
beloved. In one of Coleridge's early poems, a meditative essay in 
blank verse entitled " Religious Musings," which is believed by 
certain critics to present in a didactic form the meanings of the 
" Ancient Mariner," this chief burden of the ballad is distinctly 
voiced : 

" There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, 

Omniflc. His most holy name is Love. 

Truth of subliming import ! with the which 

Who feeds and saturates his constant soul 

He from his small particular orbit flies 

With blest outstarting! from himself he flies, 

Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze 

Views all creation; and he loves it all, 

And blesses it, and calls it very good ! " 



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